I could hear the sound of dishes clinking. The sharp, quick sound of glass striking glass. Musical, almost. That friendly, familiar sound. I heard it when I was in my bed. I would roll over at nine o’clock on a Sunday morning, still in the high of sleep, and hear my Mom putting dishes away downstairs.Taking them out of the dishwasher, she put them away one by one, clanking them as they went.
I could hear the sound of the dishes clinking. And I would roll over, eyes slightly swollen and legs not quite adjusted to the morning, and wander downstairs to get acquainted with the day. In sweatpants and a t-shirt, I would saunter into the kitchen to see my Mother, reaching above her head to put a bowl in the cupboard. She would see me out of the corner of her eye and say, “Well good morning.” I would smile, wrap my arms around her waist, and say “Good morning.”
I could hear the sound of the dishes clinking. And after I saw my Mom, I would see my Dad, sitting at the kitchen counter on an old, wooden stool, reading the paper and eating some breakfast. His hair disheveled and slippers on, I would walk up to him and say, “Good morning, Daddy” and give him a hug. He’d smile, shrug his shoulders in embrace of my arms, and say “Good morning, buddy.”
I could hear the sound of the dishes clinking. And that meant that I was here for another day. That meant I could wake up and see my Mom and my Dad exactly where I expected them to be, doing exactly what I expected them to be doing. That meant I could hug my parents, pour myself a bowl of cereal, sit on the couch, and watch TV. That meant I could bask laziness, knowing that my family was there.
I could hear the sound of dishes clinking.
And I woke up.
I woke up, got dressed, put on my backpack, and went to class. I didn’t see my Mom. I didn’t see my Dad. All I had was the sound of dishes clinking.
And the memory of the things I once had.
Going to college can kind of, ya know, stink. Don’t get me wrong. I love it here. But sometimes I can’t help but miss home. A certain memory bops into my head, and I find myself reminiscing about the days where I didn’t have to worry about a thing.
Do you ever experience anything like that? Do you ever remember something that makes you miss your home? Do you have your own version of clinking dishes? If you do, I’d love to hear about it.